


Kyle

by Amsare



Category: BioShock
Genre: Angst, Blood, Missing Scene, Multi, Plot, Seduction, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amsare/pseuds/Amsare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle wonders when he will kill somebody accidentally.</p><p>He wonders if the day he'll kiss a woman or a man, he'll electrify the poor soul through his lips, turning her or him in a pile of ash.</p><p>Fontaine calls it <i>future</i>, Cohen calls it <i>art</i>.</p><p>Kyle calls it <i>death</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing _Bioshock_ and I felt sorry for Fitzpatrick so I started writing this short story about him - 'cause why not?

_New York, September 1946_  
  
   
It's quite cold outside the café but they prefer breathing the city air instead of being inside; it's a calm September day in New York City even if the atmosphere is not a chilly one for Kyle Fitzpatrick.  
   
“Okay, so you’re really telling me,” Jason frowns, “that you want to disappear from here? Are you nuts?”  
   
Kyle sighs, a little disappointed that his old friend doesn't support him; they used to go out together, drinking a couple of beers and spending the night together.  
   
Jason is the sort of friend who’s always there if you need him – god, they’ve been knowing each other for ten years, _of course_ he can count on him! Dark hair, blue eyes, he’s a handsome and charismatic man; unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be enough for Sander Cohen, who has chosen Kyle instead of Jason as one of his disciples.  
   
_Cohen…_  
   
Kyle wonders what it would have happened if they had not decided to go to Mister Cohen’s show that night: they were so excited to be there among other young musicians, believing they would have performed as a duet as they used to… But Mister Cohen wanted to value them as unique.  
   
_“Express your inner voice, be yourself!”_  
   
At the end of their exhibition, Jason wasn’t as good as Kyle so he was disqualified receiving just an unimpressed gaze by Mister Cohen; unfortunately, he became envious of his old friend.  
   
“Listen, Cohen saw something in me, he thinks I'm talented and I deserve better,” Kyle explains it _again_ , “so that's why I'm leaving with him.”  
   
Jason looks at him grimly: there's no smile on his face and it’s kind of strange because he is always so optimistic – not that time though – how could he?  
   
“Do you hear what you're saying? You're leaving! What about me? What about our friendship? Tell me where you're going at least!”  
   
“Mister Cohen made me promise...” Kyle tries to speak, but Jason interrupts him, smashing his fist on the table, eyes glaring.  
   
“I don't fucking care!” Jason shouts, “You're my friend, you cannot expect I will not talk to you anymore because some weirdo tells you where to live your life!”  
   
“Shush! Jason!” Kyle looks around them uncomfortably – the waiter has a scolding look upon his face, “they're gonna kick us out,” which would have been embarrassing to explain to Mister Cohen later.  
   
“So what? It doesn't change a damn thing, you're going away anyway,” he lowers his voice but he’s still furious.  
   
Kyle wishes he could make him understand why he has decided to do it; but as Mister Cohen had said to him, only a few artists can be understood by the others.  
   
_“Your friend lack of personality, creativity! You should be grateful I divided you from that mediocre pianist! You will be reborn from his ashes, young Fitzpatrick.”_  
   
Jason lifts his hands up as to surrender; he stands up on his feet, speaking harshly one last time, “I wish you’ll get what you want.”  
   
He turns his back to the table while Kyle feels tears pricking his eyes, “Jason, please…!” but Jason doesn’t turn away.  
   
Suddenly the breeze is colder than before and Kyle’s face is wet.  
   
His friend is gone forever.  
  
   
***  
  
   
_New York, October 1946_  
  
   
Kyle has never seen Jason since that day: he had left a void in his soul inspiring him to write a complete song even if he hasn’t played it for anybody yet. It’s just a way to cope.  
   
Days are passing by and shows are satisfying – what else he could ever ask?  
   
It’s Saturday night, October: Kyle’s putting the make up on his face, carefully painting a heart-shaped mole on his cheek when Sander Cohen enters the room laughing joyfully.  
   
“Make sure to remember every single detail of today, my disciples! This will be our last show” Mister Cohen is completely out of himself gloating.  
   
“Andrew Ryan has fixed the final date! The 5th of November the city will be open and for this reason we, as artists, must be there in a week for the opening!”  
   
“Finally,” Rodriguez comments, “I thought he had forgotten us!”  
   
Kyle gives him a nudge with his elbow, but Cohen doesn’t mind them because he’s too excited for the good news, “Hop, hop, guys! Our time has finally come! We’re going to _Rapture_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

_Rapture, Fort Frolic, April 1954_  
  
   
The clock strikes midnight as Kyle is smoking his third cigarette for that day – he's getting better, he usually smokes six or more – cursing himself because he should giving up once for all.  
   
 _Happy Birthday to me._  
   
He's behind the scenes, listening to Anna Culpepper singing a lame love song; he should have gone away sooner because he can't stand her, really. Even Mister Cohen despises her, but she has to work in a way or another and Fort Frolic stage is the right place for an artist.  
   
If we want to call _her_ an artist.  
   
Kyle blows some smoke out, finishing his cigarette; he yawns as he stands up thinking about going to sleep – he's done for that night.  
   
“Here you are! Mister Cohen wants to see you in his private room, “Silas says to him as he enters the room, “don't be late!”  
   
Kyle is puzzled, “Mister Cohen wants to see me?” he repeats not convinced, “you sure?”  
   
Silas rolls his eyes, “no, I'm joking cause I love pissing you off,” he makes a gesture and then he's gone again.  
   
 _Jerk._  
   
As Anna Culpepper finishes his song, audience cheering her, Kyle exits the room, walking down the long corridor reaching for the bathysphere. He sets the destination – _Mercury Suits_ – and the machine starts screeching terribly.  
   
Kyle looks out the window, sea life fusing together Rapture so naturally; he remembers the first time he saw it, mesmerized by the view.  
   
 _Jason would have loved it._  
   
Yeah, _Jason_ , from his old, boring, normal life: he doesn't need him anymore – he has fame, money, and tons of lovers.  
   
But if only he could forget him once for all... As if it was possible.  
   
Jason is not special, he stayed on the continent.  
   
So long.  
   
   
The bathysphere arrives at his destination, opening the doors – there's a strong salty smell and even if he's used to it he still notices inevitably; Mister Cohen doesn't like it but he had to stand it just like all Rapture citizens have to.  
   
There's a couple of boys smoking in circle: one of them looks at Kyle winking at him but he doesn't care about him, he has to meet his _Maestro_.  
   
The golden Sander Cohen written over the door shines in the light: Kyle knocks waiting for an answer, “Come in!”  
   
He opens the door looking for Mister Cohen, when there's a loud _crack_ and suddenly multicolored confetti are falling down on him; Kyle covers his eyes surprised.  
   
 _What the hell...?_  
   
“Happy birthday, young Fitzpatrick!”  
   
Kyle looks over the glass windows noticing the unmistakable silhouette of Sander Cohen; he smiles fondly, “Mister Cohen, thank you,” he bows gently down.  
   
He's quite surprised Cohen has remembered his birthday – Kyle has been very secretive about it keeping it for himself – but probably he has read it from some paper in the archive in Fort Frolic.  
   
Sander Cohen opens his arms wide as to invite him in a hug: he's wearing a fine red dressing grown, ready to go to bed.  
   
Or so it seems.  
   
“Come here, sweet Kyle,” he murmurs, looking at him interested, “how old you are now? Twenty? Twenty-three?”  
   
Kyle hugs tight Cohen: even if he's taller than his Maestro, he's feeling like a child.  
   
“Well, I'm twenty-eight now,” he answers, covering his face on Cohen's shoulder; as he speaks, the other man sighs.  
   
“Oh, Fitzpatrick, for me you will always be so young and innocent,” he leaves Kyle but he caresses his face, looking at him so tenderly, “we have known each other for nearly a decade, my little pet.”  
   
 _Nearly a decade... Nearly ten years?_  
   
“Time truly flies by,” he keeps on saying in a smooth tone, “we must treasure it, don't you think?”  
   
Kyle nods hypnotized by Cohen, wide eyes fixed on him, “Yes, Mister Cohen.”  
   
He knows what's going to happen because Cohen loves all his disciples like more than a simple father: he gives them pleasure as he requires it.  
   
 _We're just flesh and bones._


	3. Chapter 3

_Rapture, Plasmid Show Rooms, August 1958_  
  
  
It's not the first time they've been there in Fontaine Futuristics to watch the demonstrations of new Plasmids.  
  
ADAM, EVE, new frontiers for Rapture.  
  
  
This time though is different: Mister Cohen wants to give his disciples a present.  
  
"We're not here just to admire those young men splicing themselves!" Cohen has said in a haughty way, "I'll buy some Plasmids at the end of the show!"  
  
Kyle is quite impressed with the things the Plasmids allow you to do – hell, you can snap your fingers and light a cigarette on – but they are not selling them yet.  
  
"Uhm, Mister Cohen, I'm afraid those Plasmids aren't on the market yet," he says cautiously, pointing at a red sign on the wall which says SOON IN YOUR HOUSES!  
  
"Nonsenses! That sign is for the common people, young Fitzpatrick, and we are not common people," Cohen laughs joyfully, clapping his hands together. "I personally asked to Mister Fontaine an exclusive taste of this new nectar."  
  
Kyle bows his head in respect; Silas Cobb next to him whistles appreciatively, "I can't wait to use some Plasmids!"  
  
They soon have the chance to try them as they go behind the scenes of the demonstration; there is a young lovely woman who greets them and shows them the way to the hidden laboratories.   
  
But as they go down the stairs, Kyle swears he has heard somebody screaming aloud _"no, no, no, not again, I don't wanna take it, put it back, doc!"_  
  
He looks at the young girl and them asks her, "what was that?"  
  
She doesn't stop walking, keeping her fake smile on her pale face, "oh, don't worry about it."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Please, Sir, this way, follow Mister Cohen," she cuts him off and stands aside to make them enter in a room.  
  
Mister Cohen seems to have noticed nothing at all. "Hush, hush, now, Fitzpatrick," he just says, taking off his coat as he watches with great interests the injections on the lab table.  
  
Next to the table, there is a man wearing a nice suit, waiting for them.  
  
That man is Frank Fontaine.   
  
"Please, Mister Cohen, let me explain how ADAM works..."  
  
Kyle bits his lower lip, quite nervous: why is he the only one feeling this way? By the look on Cobb's or Rodriguez’s face, so it seems. They are looking at that glowing red injection as if it was some kind of dessert.  
  
Kyle does not like needles, the sting you feel on your skin and the feeling of something liquid invading your blood circulation. Now, _cigarettes or cigars_ , those were good.  
  
"Is there a way to smoke ADAM?" He asks to Mister Fontaine but he just laughs at him, Mister Cohen glaring at him.  
  
"Now, now, Fitzpatrick! This is no time to behave like a child!"  
  
His friends chuckle, Silas gives him a nudge.  
  
There is no turning back and Kyle cannot do anything except for looking at the ADAM, which will soon flow through his body.  
  
***  
  
_Rapture, Fort Frolic, October 1958_  
  
  
It's been two month since he's got ADAM through his veins; it has changed his genome system, unlocking amazing super powers, but to keep on using them, he needs constants shots of EVE. There are vending machines where now you can find everything you need, and it's so easy to use that even a child could inject EVE.  
  
Kyle would have been happy if they had warned him about the collateral effects: his body has started to change because there is a sort of blue glowing light on his left hand where he injects the EVE.   
  
_Nothing to worry about,_ the Doc has said to him, just keep on using it cautiously.  
  
_Cautiously my ass,_ Kyle would have wanted to say, _as if it was easy not using it at all._  
  
Giving up smoking had been a piece of cake.  
  
He has started having strange dreams, about killing people and drinking blood from dead corpses; god, they were terrible and they had no sense.  
  
  
The most terrible one is still fresh in his head: he is in a desert, sun shining hot on his skin. Suddenly there’s Jason next to him wearing a bloodstained suit and a rabbit mask.   
  
"Are you ready for the party, Kyle?" The sun goes down as soon as his friend starts talking, shadows getting darker and darker.  
  
"Ready for what?" Kyle asks him parched.  
  
"The party, my friend, the big party!" Jason laughs and laughs, turning into Sander Cohen.  
  
And then there is a loud thunder and blood fells down on him, coating his clothes, running into his mouth...  
  
"The party, my friend, get ready for the party!"  
  
  
And then Kyle always gets up shivering, heart beating fast in his chest.  
  
_You're too stressed, Kyle,_ Martin Finnegan, another disciple really close to Cohen, has said to him behind the scenes while they were getting ready for a show, _you should slow down a little. I feel strange, yeah, but isn’t it great? I can freeze a beer snapping my fingers!_  
  
Well, maybe he is right: Kyle has started to take at least twice of EVE dose to last for three hours of shows at Cohen's private club. He's not even scared of needles anymore.   
  
But what can he do? This is his life now, EVE, fame and success. He simply started to take sleeping pills – maybe they would have taken the nightmares away.  
  
He doesn't dare to look at his arm, though... Some nights, it twitches painfully and zaps electric bolts through the room.  
  
_You're a little unstable, that's all,_ the Doc has said.  
  
  
Kyle wonders when he will kill somebody accidentally.  
  
He wonders if the day he'll kiss a woman or a man, he'll electrify the poor soul through his lips, turning her or him in a pile of ash.  
  
Fontaine calls it _future_ , Cohen calls it _art_.  
  
  
Kyle calls it _death_.


	4. Chapter 4

_Rapture, Fort Frolic, March 1959_  
   
   
The Civil War has broken off in Rapture and Kyle is glad that Atlas and his gang had decided to leave Fort Frolic alone: two months ago the Kashmir was nearly destroyed and many people had been injured. It was a luck that he was not there celebrating the new year, as Sander Cohen had wanted to celebrate in his own private club.  
   
As if people now want to celebrate: everything is going down, Fontaine is dead for good, Ryan is a tyrant and this new Atlas thinks he's the best for the people round there.  
   
Kyle does not care – fuck, all he has ever wanted was just being an artist – and looks at the posters with a skeptical look.  
   
  
 _Atlas is your pal, Atlas is your friend._  
  
   
He's just another clown and Rapture is the new circus of the horrors: there are Big Daddies and Little Sisters, creatures so bizarre they seem to have come out from his nightmares and there are Splicers, once people turned into animals driven by their need for ADAM.  
   
What has Kyle become? He's still himself, mostly of the time; except sometimes he cannot stay lucid as he needs more EVE, more ADAM. He physically needs to feel that thrill, zapping bolts through his fingers and he knows it's no good: every morning he has a terrible headache and sometimes he can hear his own heart beating fast, so fast that he expects it to explode in his chest.  
   
"Master Cohen want to make an announcement," Silas says, beating his fists on Kyle's door.  
   
Kyle gets up from his bed and goes to the main hall of Fort Frolic; there is some music playing and Sander Cohen shows himself as the eccentric weirdo he is.  
   
Kyle is not alone as there is a crowd of people who has gathered there - some of them were playing cards upstairs maybe, others were shopping - and now they look at Cohen with great interest.  
   
"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight, despite all the unfortunates events! I have a surprise for all of you!"  
   
People applaud and Kyle looks around himself, feeling uncomfortable.  
   
"I'll give you a _Final Frolic_ , something you'll never forget!"  
   
The lights go off and when they come back, the horror begins.  
   
   
"Oh my god, what is it?"  
  
  
"Are they people?"  
   
   
Three white statues are standing at the base of the stairs.  
   
   
Kyle freezes.  
   
   
Since when do statues bleed from their necks?  
   
   
He moves away from the crowd, walking towards the exits: he has a bad feeling about it and he's right to feel that way.  
   
"Oh, fuck."  
   
The doors are locked down, gates blocking the way to the bathysphere; he tries to open them but as soon as he touches metal, there is a loud whistle and a security bot is pointing its red light at him.  
   
   
 _A warning._  
   
   
"Alright, alright, I get it," he says, deciding to come back to his room.  
   
  
Meanwhile, he hears the crowd screaming and some gunshots.  
  
   
 _We are in Hell._  
   
  
 _I'm dead and this is Hell._  
   
***  
   
 _Rapture, Fort Frolic, January 1960_  
   
   
Kyle's head is heavy and he is blindfolded; there's a strange smell all around him, just like plaster used by Cohen in his sculptures - _human sculptures_.  
   
He cannot focus on anything else as it's difficult to wake up once for all.  
   
There is some music in the air - _Tchaikovsky?_ \- and then somebody whispers in his ear, "wake up young Fitzpatrick, wake up," and he shivers because he knows the voice.  
   
   
"M-Maestro?"  
   
"Yes, Fitzpatrick, correct," Cohen says and the blindfold is taken off.  
   
   
Kyle blinks a couple of times as his vision is blurred; he's sitting in front of a piano and he can't feel his legs.  
   
"W-Where am I?" He mumbles, still dizzy.  
   
   
The last thing he remembers is that he was hiding in his quarters, gun in his right and an EVE syringe in his left: it has been months since he was living like that, at least since when Cohen had started killing innocent people just for fun.  
   
 _Corpses for the art's sake!_ He used to yell in the middle of the night and you could hear him from everywhere in Fort Frolic.  
   
   
 _Corpses._  
   
   
He had seen it, _oh_ , he had seen those corpses frozen in plaster, blood soaking through it: he swore one of it was the size of a child.  
   
Kyle had understood that if Sander Cohen would have got him, his destiny would have been pretty much the same.  
   
   
"You are on our stage, young Fitzpatrick," Cohen is walking, _no_ , he's _dancing_ around him, "do you remember our first performance here, in Fleet Hall?"  
   
   
He was in trap.  
   
   
"How did you get to me?" Kyle asks, flexing his arms - _my legs, I can't feel my legs_ \- "how?"  
   
Cohen is still dancing to the music, eyes closed, smeared make up upon his face.  
   
"You were so young and talented, dancing to my music, playing my sweet melodies... But I must confess," he stops, fixing his crazy eyes on him, "I always thought you were the best pianist Iìve ever had as a disciple."  
   
He walks towards him, gives him a kiss on his lips and then laughs.  
   
And that's when Kyle notices it: explosive, tons of explosive all over the piano, ready to blow him up.  
   
   
 _TNT._  
   
   
"YOU FUCKING PSYCO!"  
   
   
Worst of all, he is plastered from the waist down to the piano and he cannot go anywhere. "Master Cohen," he tries to cool down and reason with him "Master Cohen, let me go!"  
   
But Cohen isn't listening to him, lost into his own words, "we should practice for the next show, shouldn't we? Would you mind playing my masterpiece?"  
   
His masterpiece, the famous _Cohen Scherzo's #7._  
   
Kyle struggles to stand up but in vain, "You gotta be kidding me," he hisses, heart beating fast. That composition was nearly impossible to play perfectly! He had tried countless times during those years but he had finally given up - too much time consuming.  
   
"I thought I was done playing it, Master Cohen," Kyle said, "Cobb was more talented than me."  
   
"Nonsenses!" Cohen claps his hands, runs off the stage, "Cobb isn't here anyway! I want to hear _you_ play it!"  
   
   
 _No way._  
   
 _No way, no way._  
  
   
"Oh, here it is," Cohen says as he comes back with a bird mask in his hand, "You cannot perform without a proper costume."  
   
Kyle grimaces with disgust, as he smells blood on the mask as soon as Cohen makes him wear it; he doesn't move his arms because he finds himself too much scared of the explosive.  
   
"There," Cohen says satisfied, patting him on his head, "good boy."  
   
Kyle licks his lips nervously, "Mister Cohen, please, let's talk about this…"  
   
Cohen just looks at him melancholy and exits the stage. "Play, Fitzpatrick," he orders behind the scenes, "play my masterpiece or there'll be consequences."  
   
   
***  
  
 _Hours, many hours later_  
  
  
"Da, da, da, da…"  
   
   
Trembling fingers move on the keys and music fills the empty stage; shadows of monsters - other dead bodies - are all around him as a mock of some real dancers.  
   
His hands hurt so bad, they are bleeding on the keys and they are slippery, but he cannot stop playing the _Scherzo_.  
  
   
Another mistake, another wrong note and Cohen is screaming, "Allegro, allegro, presto, presto, no, no, no!"  
   
   
Kyle is sweating, he dreams of EVE, he cries under the mask, "I-I'm trying!"  
   
   
He can't take it anymore and slam his hands hard on the keys, blood splattering his waistcoat - everything hurts so much but he does it anyway - and then, he looks towards the light and he swears there is somebody else who is just arrived in the theatre.  
  
   
 _A visitor?_  
  
  
Another splicer, perhaps, or Sander Cohen himself.  
   
  
Or maybe he's just gone mad.  
   
   
With all the breath he's got left he screams, "Cohen, you sick fuck, LET ME OUT OF THIS!"  
   
   
Hearing the blast is a blessing.  
   
   
Kyle has not even the time to think, _I am free._  
   
   
   
 


End file.
